All whom war, dearth, age, agues, tyrannies, Despair, law, chance, hath slain.

Eternity is not an everlasting flux of time, but time is as a short parenthesis in a long period.

But he who loveliness within Hath found, all outward loathes, For he who color loves, and skin, Loves but their oldest clothes.

That subtle knot which makes us man So must pure lovers souls descend T affections, and to faculties, Which sense may reach and apprehend, Else a great Prince in prison lies.

That thou remember them, some claim as debt; I think it mercy, if thou wilt forget.

At the round earth's imagined corners, blow your trumpets, angels.

Die not, poore death, nor yet canst thou kill me.